


Ghostly Poetry

by CadetDru



Series: courtship genres [1]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Asexual Relationship, Awkward Flirting, Bad Poetry, Banter, Canon Asexual Character, Companionable Snark, Depression, First Date, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Friends to Still Friends, M/M, Paranoia, Season 2, not a ghost
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-02
Updated: 2020-09-02
Packaged: 2021-03-06 20:28:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,929
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26244940
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CadetDru/pseuds/CadetDru
Summary: “Fancy a drink?” Martin heard himself stammer.Jon actually looked up at him, bloodshot eyes searching Martin’s face. “You’re trying to distract me,” Jon said.Martin didn’t know what to say because Jon wasn’t entirely wrong. He just wanted Jon to relax. “That is the idea behind the offer of a drink,” he finally managed to spit out. “A distraction.”
Relationships: Martin Blackwood & Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Series: courtship genres [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1932031
Comments: 8
Kudos: 168





	Ghostly Poetry

It was the end of a long Friday at the end of a long week. Martin had made more mistakes that week than he liked. He winced in pain each and every time he did something that he or one of his colleagues thought was stupid. The errors burned through him, bringing a flush to his cheeks and a cold sweat to his brow. He was getting better about them, thinking more clearly about what he needed to do. 

Martin knew that was the end of Friday because everyone else was packing up to go. Time existed for other people and spilled over onto Martin. Martin made a habit of making mistakes that could have been avoided. Life would be much easier if he just took his time and thought properly about the problem. Martin had rarely, if ever, made decisions that were good for him. 

He was also focusing more on his poetry, on the little ways that he could escape without going anywhere at all. He was writing just to get it out of his head. If he hit upon something worthwhile, then he’d keep it. He probably wouldn’t touch it at all over the weekend. It had become something to do at work to keep himself from breaking anything. 

Martin grabbed his things to go. Jon was still in his office. Jon’s emotional state wasn’t a problem that he could solve. It wasn’t technically Martin’s problem. It had less of an impact on his work than Martin might have thought. It was just that he cared about Jon. While Martin had lived in the archives, he had been able to keep an eye on Jon and his growing paranoia. It didn’t seem like it helped either of them, didn’t make one or the other feel at ease. Now that Martin had moved out, he seemed to see Jon less and less. 

Martin knocked on Jon’s office door, cracked open so Jon could keep an eye on them. Jon wasn’t recording anything, so it seemed safe to enter. 

“I'm heading out,” Martin said. It really hadn't been necessary to come and tell Jon that. He had been tracking everyone's movements enough.

Jon nodded, waving a dismissive hand. He had important and confusing papers to review. Martin wished Jon would at least blink more, if he couldn’t take a break. He would wear his eyes out, and then where would he be?

“Fancy a drink?” Martin heard himself stammer.

Jon actually looked up at him, bloodshot eyes searching Martin’s face. “You’re trying to distract me,” Jon said. 

Martin didn’t know what to say because Jon wasn’t entirely wrong. He just wanted Jon to relax. “That is the idea behind the offer of a drink,” he finally managed to spit out. “A distraction.” 

Jon’s laugh wasn’t funny at all. It wasn't just that he didn't believe that Martin would ask him out. 

Martin stayed in the doorway, trying to find a way to shrink down without fully going away. He was too tall, broad, and wide for it to work; he took up too much space. He wasn't particularly big, but Jon was smaller than him and he didn't want to seem intimidating in any way.

He had asked his boss out. He was wearing a t-shirt and crumpled khakis and he had asked his boss out. He was going to get fired. He wanted to find someone that he could talk to at the end of the day. Martin felt something, too much, for Jon but he didn’t think of it as love. The components didn’t add to what he thought love should be.

“Alright,” Jon said, scowling at Martin. He got up and started straightening his desk. Strands of gray and black hair surrounded his face, giving him a smoky halo. 

Martin laughed. “Just like that? You’ll go out with me?” Martin winced and Jon froze. “I didn’t mean it like that,” Martin said, the lie filling his mouth. 

“Yes, I’ll go out with you for a drink,” Jon enunciated clearly. 

Martin sighed. “It’ll do you good.”

“You don’t need to try and convince me,” Jon said, enunciating less. He ran a hand through his hair, failing to keep it off his face and managing just to disturb it more. “I’ve already agreed.”

“Good. I think.” Martin was grinning ear to ear. 

"Should I...change or..?" Jon said, waving at the jumper and trousers he wore. 

"You look great," Martin said.A blush overtook him. "Fine. I mean, it's fine. Everything's fine." He kept talking despite trying to stop himself. He shouldn’t have been giddy as they talked about where to go and how the weather would influence their destination.

Martin knew a place nearby where they could grab a bite with their drink. Jon, having not eaten since possibly the previous week, had a hard time arguing. They grabbed drinks and a booth where Jon could see everyone and everything in the pub. Martin smiled at Jon, not all sure what to do next. He'd never seen himself get as far as that.

“Why me?” Jon asked, acting like they were midway into a conversation. Maybe they were.

“Why you what?” Martin asked, desperately seeking clarification before he tried to answer. 

“Why get a drink with me? Because I was there or something more?” Jon glared at Martin, like "something more" could only be nefarious. Martin wasn't sure what Jon thought of him in that moment. He couldn't begin to guess with how strange Jon had been acting lately.

Martin, to his own horror, laughed in Jon’s face. “I asked you, Jon, to get a drink with me, Martin, because I thought it might be an enjoyable activity for us both. This job can get to you.”

“It has,” Jon said, distant already.

Martin wanted to snap him back to the present moment, to some kind of connection between the two of them. Talking about tea wouldn't be any good. “Do you remember when you finally admitted that you do believe in this sort of thing?”

Jon frowned. “Yes, I--" he started to say, before stopping short. "We--you--I," he said, encompassing all the people involved.

“You asked if I was a ghost,” Martin said quickly. He didn't want to talk about the rest of it, the worms attacking or anything else that happened then. He wanted Jon to focus on the two of them. 

Jon wouldn’t meet his eye. “I was worried,” he mumbled.

“All that skepticism evaporated under the potential of my death.” Martin didn’t add his private theory that this proved that Jon liked him and was probably writing “Mr. Blackwood-Sims” in a notebook somewhere. "All your walls came crumbling down because your favorite Archives inhabitant might have died."

Jon sneered. The suspicion hadn’t gone out of him, not completely, but there was something breaking through. Martin had spent time, too much time, interpreting Jon's moods. "How many Archives inhabitants do you think we have?" Jon said.

"I try not to think about it," Martin said, honestly. “No one’s ever thought I was a ghost before.”

“And yet you didn’t write a poem about moving through the world, invisible as the fog.” Jon waved his hand through the air like a snake. 

“Fog’s visible,” Martin said, not able to stop himself from correcting Jon.

Jon seemed much more exasperated but more engaged. His arms and neck seemed to be looser around the joints. “My point--” he started to say, leaning forward.

Martin felt bold enough to interrupt Jon. “Your point is that I didn’t write a poem about something you said to me when you were worried.”

Jon nodded. "That doesn't seem like you."

"And you’re…” Martin waited for Jon to fill in a word, and realized it wasn’t going to happen. “Disappointed?” he supplied. 

“Surprised,” Jon countered.

Martin leaned back, more sure of himself. “Because I write a poem about every word you say to me?” Martin said. It hurt to say it, worse to hear it said. “It really is quite a Romantic idea, being the ghost of the Archives.”

“A ghost, surely. Not The Ghost,” Jon said, pronouncing his capital letters with ease.

“Just one among many?” Martin let his hurt feelings show across his face. It seemed like it could be almost flirtatious, to hint at how deeply he felt Jon’s words. It felt like something that was allowed, just for a moment. 

“I’m afraid so," Jon said. "It's a dangerous job." He was closing in on himself again. There was something in the archives that was haunting him -- a real ghost was not out of the question.

“Still," Martin said. "I have to be a special kind of ghost. Doing my same job. Somehow making it out of the Archives on the errands you send me…”

“Alright,” Jon said, not quite managing to hide his smile. “I didn’t think it through.”

“No, you thought ‘oh, no, Martin might be dead’ while I was breathing there next to you and then...” Martin trailed off. He was pushing it too far. 

Jon’s hidden smile was fading. “That's as far as I got. Just to ‘oh, no’ and then it froze.” Jon propped his elbows on the table. He laced his long fingers together, and cradled his chin on the backs of his knuckles as he leaned forward. His eyes were staring straight into Martin. “It would make me very sad if you did die.”

Martin frowned. Something was swelling in his chest. “Then I won’t.”

Jon laughed. “I want to believe you.”

“I can't die, and you can’t hear my poems about being mistaken for a ghost.”

“I’ll hold you to both promises," Jon said. He sighed. “You really are too good for me.”

“Sorry, what?” Martin couldn’t hear anything for the sound of blood pounding in his ears. He could feel it rushing from his heart through his neck. His cheeks were flushed. 

“I mean, you’re too good to be true.”

That at least was accurate; Martin’s CV was completely made up. The Martin that Jon was supposed to know was made up. still, the context was all wrong. 

“If you’d like another try at that,” Martin offered. He didn’t want Jon to dwell on the lies that comprised Martin K Blackwood. It was a careful construct that wouldn't stand up to scrutiny.

“You’re a good person, but…” Jon trailed off.

“But?” Martin prompted, dreading what was going to come next. He was going to be fired. The man he wasn't even dating was going to break up with him. Jon was going to stab him in the heart with a wooden stake. Something bad was going to come.

“I can’t trust my senses, which means I can’t trust…” Jon didn’t say anything more, just looked at the table between them.

Martin sat and waited. He supposed he could leave, or he could say something, or he could throw either drink in Jon’s face to elicit a reaction. None of that seemed good. Instead, he tried not to sigh too audibly as he waited for Jon to drift back to him. He could be patient. Martin still wasn't sure what was happening, what he was supposed to be doing, what he even wanted.

"I can't trust anything," Jon said.

"I'm sorry," Martin said, because it would be too much of a lie to tell Jon to trust him. 

"Thank you," Jon said curtly. He exhaled, sat up straighter, looked to Martin. "And thank you for…" A throat clearing. "For asking me out tonight."

"Oh, my pleasure," Martin said. "I've been meaning to get you out of the office for a while."

"Why?" Jon said, eyes narrowing again. The lines on his forehead were getting etched deeper.

"I didn't mean anything, I'm not expecting you to… I'm not expecting anything. I'm just…" Martin was feeling less scared of Jon's fear. "Because I like you and I like not living in the Archives any more. Being able to see you outside of the Archives is a perfect combination. And because I'm worried about you." Martin sighed. Terrible approach for a first date.

Jon sighed and reached for Martin's hand. "Thank you for being concerned." He looked around. "I know I sound…"

"Insecure?" Martin suggested.

"I was going to say doubtful."

"You sound both," Martin said. "How can I make you feel secure?"

"I'm asexual," Jon said suddenly. Martin had received this information from the wind, but he hadn't expected Jon to tell him over drinks. 

"I'm demisexual," Martin returned the volley. He smiled, shakily. He hated every coming-out conversation he'd ever had. "Not that this is a date-date," Martin stammered.

"Right," Jon agreed crisply. "I just wanted to be clear that if this was a real date, that there are certain limits."

Martin's mouth parted slightly, but no words came out. Thoughts were hard to find, let alone words to articulate them with. "My… sex has never been… it's about the person, the feelings. Sex's not a goal. It's… a byproduct? I don't know." 

"I think I understand," Jon said. It had to be a lie; Martin couldn't be making any sense at all.

"I would always respect your boundaries, Jon. That's all I'm trying to say. And obviously this isn't a date. You're my boss." And Jon was having a terrible time of it and hated everyone and everything. A real date might kill him. 

Jon nodded. "Exactly, it's inappropriate, so I can't think of…"

"Of?" Martin prompted. Things that Jon couldn't think of had a great potential for him, if only to give him hope. 

"I couldn't be the one to ask you out for drinks," Jon said, picking up his emptying glass.

"But you're here with me," Martin said. "As friends, colleagues. An early performance review. Does it matter?"

"Not at all," Jon said. "We're here, now."

"Seize the day," Martin said. "Another round of drinks?"

Jon agreed and they spent the next round trying not to talk about any depressing topics. That ruled out any potential hobbies or things related to the Archives. It was a ridiculously superficial conversation of the first date variety, exchanging random trivia about themselves and little things in their lives.

"I think I need to go home soon, though."

"Do you mean home or the Archives?" Martin said.

"Does it matter?" Jon scoffed. 

Martin exhaled heavily. "It matters to me."

"Why?" Jon said. Another accusation. 

Martin could only sigh again. This was the exhaustion of being around Jon. He was just incessantly on edge. Martin wanted to give him a chance; he refused to let them run out. "My ghost's unfinished business?" he suggested.

Jon laughed. "Thank you, ghost of Martin."

"You're welcome. Do you want to try it again sometime?"

"Maybe. Yes. Yes, definitely," Jon said. 

They were heading in different directions. They walked together for as far as they could. Martin turned to go his own way. Jon grabbed Martin's wrist with his long fingers. "Call me when you get home. Please." 

"Okay," Martin said, a little dazed.

"Call, don't text."

Martin had been trapped for two weeks and Jon had received texts from "him" the whole time. Whatever else was going on with Jon, that had to be preying on his mind. Martin laid his other hand on Jon's as he squeezed. "Alright, of course." 

Jon released his grip on Martin's wrist and took his other hand instead. "I'll hear from you soon, then." He squeezed his hand once and let go.

Martin didn't mind heading home alone. He hadn't expected the night to go half as well as it did. Jon hadn't fled immediately, had actually stayed just a shade longer than Martin would have wanted to. He called Jon as soon as he'd walked into his flat. Jon answered on the second ring. "I'm home," Martin said.

"Glad to hear it," Jon said, as if it didn't matter to him in the slightest what Martin did. "Any poetry about tonight?"

"You've hardly given me a chance to write it yet." Martin said.

"I've read some of your work," Jon said. His voice seemed more disdainful than usual over the phone, but maybe just because Martin couldn't see the exact set of his jaw or glint in his eye. 

"This is no way to talk yourself into another date," Martin said. It was supposed to sound like was effortlessly flirtatious, the kind of thing that Tim would be able to pull off. From Martin, it just sounded like he was sulking.

"I thought we decided it was definitely not a date," Jon said.

"Right, slipped my mind." Martin said. He fell onto his sofa. "For some reason I keep thinking of it as if I asked this hot librarian-type out for the night."

"Librarian-type?" Jon repeated.

"I didn't say that," Martin said. "I'm much more articulate than that."

"I should hope so," Jon said. "Best not-date I've been on for a while, your type aside."

"With the lack of ghostly poetry and all?" Martin said.

"Exactly. I've never had that hanging over my head before."

"Glad I can give you some variety," Martin said.

"I'll see you on Monday."

"Have a good weekend." Martin said. "Try not to work too much."

Jon laughed bitterly and disconnected the call. Martin realized he hadn't asked if Jon had made it home or if he'd gone back to work. At the very least, he'd pulled Jon away from his desk for a few hours. 

Martin ended up drifting off on the sofa, fully dressed, dreaming of Jon's hand in his.


End file.
